The Boy Slumber
by BEJR
Summary: After five days of dead ends, physics projects, bitingly cold patrols, and a lingering cough, it was inevitable that the young hero would crash hard and fast when the Mountain Dew and adrenaline finally wore off.  No slash. Chap. 3: Extreme Sleeping
1. The Couch

Of course, after five days of dead ends, physics projects, bitingly cold patrols, and a lingering cough, it was inevitable that the young hero would crash hard and fast when the Mountain Dew and adrenaline finally wore off.

He manages to wait until Bruce is occupied in a distant part of the cave (running a test on a mysterious fiber from the latest crime scene or something like that – his tired brain doesn't care) to sneak – can one who is weaving on their feet sneak? – off to the musty couch crammed between two seldom-used workstations near the 'mobile.

With a martyred sigh, he stretches out on the atrocious polyester plaid cushions. The damp nature of a cave makes the utilitarian furniture theme appropriate – anything upholstered grew moist and moldy. Eyeball-searing fabric aside, there really is no reason for this overstuffed monstrosity to have survived any of Alfred's spring cleaning jags (do _not_ get in that man's way unless you want to be forcibly dusted) or any of Bruce's impromptu training sessions (I will _never eat_ if I have to spar for a single slice of pizza). However, he has long since stopped pondering _why_ the couch remained and simply appreciated _that_ it remained.

Curling into a miserable ball, he pulls his cape closer in a vain attempt to ward off a sudden bout of chills. He doesn't remember the cave being this drafty. The new insulated fabric must not be up to scratch. They'd have to work on the design. Later. When he had the energy.

He's sick enough to absolutely dread the remaining hours of patrol, but not quite sick enough to swallow his pride – and some cold medication – and beg off duty tonight. He's sick enough to have drawn a few concerned glances from Alfred and maybe, _maybe_, a considering look from the Bat, but he's not sick enough to totally circumvent any attempt at a healthy facade, however draining it may be.

_Just a few minutes and I'll be good to go._

His eyes flutter closed and he drifts off to sleep, slow breaths occasionally interrupted by a congested snuffle.

He doesn't wake when Alfred, supposedly tidying up the perpetual clutter of the cave but in actuality casually ensuring Gotham's knight and squire weren't starving or bleeding out on the rocky floor, finds him ten minutes later.

He doesn't see the older man's eyes soften as he takes in the dirtied uniform, pallid complexion, and darkly-shadowed eyes, doesn't feel a gentle hand press against his forehead and pull back in shock at the heat it encounters.

He definitely doesn't notice a warmed blue blanket (secretly his favorite – he'd never admit to liking something so fluffy but Alfred always knows) being carefully tucked in around him.

Later, when he wakes – boots and mask removed, orange juice and medication waiting – sweltering under no less than three blankets, he blearily sits up wonders why one has scalloped edges.


	2. The Italian Challenge

Tim blamed the dream on the Bat's latest push for him to become (more) multilingual. Batman decided the Boy Wonder needed to add Italian to his language repertoire that already included Spanish, Farsi, German, Chinese and a working knowledge of French (perfectly respectable to Tim, but Bruce said jump and you said how high).

Being the Batman, Bruce did nothing by halves and had therefore started Tim learning the language cold turkey when he refused to address his partner in anything except Italian on patrol. And in the cave. And at the breakfast table. And – yeah, everywhere. All the time.

Even when Tim had stumbled into Bruce at the witching hour on the way to the bathroom, the older man had only offered up a "Mi scusi" (1) and continued down the hallway. He didn't even flinch at the glare burning into his retreating back.

Their most recent case had been...interesting. Batman still spoke English around Commissioner Gordon, but any one-on-one roof-top/Batmobile/middle-of-chasing-the-freaking-bad-guys conversations were conducted entirely in Italian.

And didn't that get old. Fast.

Tim had managed to survive at first by using his communicator's translator in secret (disabled by the Bat after the first day – damn) and after that by stuffing a miniature version of Italian for Dummies (2) in one of the pouches on his belt. He could tell Batman was speaking in simple sentences – even if he had initiated this impossible challenge, he didn't add insult to injury – but it was still hard to punch out thugs when one's left hand was handicapped by a paperback book and one's brain was frantically trying to remember the future-tense verb conjugation for "to go." (3)

Out of self-preservation, Tim had spent every spare moment between patrol, school, homework, and sleep (what little he got of it) immersing himself in the Italian language – the learn-or-die Batman Method obviously taking its desired effect. And it _was_ working. However, one can only spend so much time in front of a computer language tutor or nose-first in a language dictionary before they ended up as Tim was now, passed out and snoring at one of the work stations in the Cave, head pillowed on his arms and dreaming of short, monocled villains . . .

* * *

><p>The Penguin screwed his monocle into his eye, tucked his signature umbrella firmly under an arm, and prepared to depress the large, ominously glowing red button with a flourish.<p>

_These villains. Really. Couldn't the Doomsday Button be green for once? I'd even take blue. Anything to save me from death-by-cliché._

Tim could feel the sweat sliding down his back, dripping between his shoulder blades and pooling at his lower back as he struggled against the icy iceberg manacles and arctic-patterned gag.

_Note to self: Gotham-appropriate armor is considerably toastier in Italy during the winter. You'd think a _Penguin _would prefer somewhere colder, but no. Bruce and I prepare for the tundra and get sunny, 70 degree beaches. I think I would even wear Dick's old uniform at this point. I mean, it has less material, right?_

Tim shook his head to clear it. _If I'm pining for that...that leotard _monstrosity, _the heat is definitely getting to me. _

_Wait, wasn't there a villain at the climax of an evil plot somewhere around here? Right. Focus._

Cobblepot was inches away from setting in motion a chain of events that would not end well for Robin. Namely that the police officers, whose sirens could be heard wailing in the vicinity, would find him "apprehended" by the Penguin for a string of bombings at which his fingerprints had mysteriously been found.

_I never should have left the Cave this morning. _

Heart pounding, sweat beading, struggling against his bonds, with sirens approaching, the Boy Wonder watched helplessly as the gray-gloved hand of the Penguin came closer and closer to the –

* * *

><p>Tim awoke with a start and jerked backwards, only keeping his balance by the fortune of a quip grip on his bicep.<p>

He steadied himself in his seat and took a deep breath, running a shaking hand through his hair.

His first, semi-hysterical thought: _My job is officially getting to me._

His second thought: _Was I dreaming in Italian?_

A slight tightening of the grip on his arm reminded him that he was no longer alone.

He turned his head slightly and followed the gauntleted arm up to a cape-draped shoulder and folded-back cowl.

_Well, this is embarrassing._

He took another steadying breath before meeting the eyes of his mentor.

Batman simply raised a questioning eyebrow.

Tim floundered. He didn't even _begin _to know how to explain (or make an excuse for) the craziness of his dream in English, let alone in Italian and then there was the mess of Red Bull cans, Rosetta Stone (4) disks, and flashcards cluttering the workstation and –

A small squeeze brought his attention back to the present.

"Robin," Bruce began, "G–"

"Signore," Tim interrupted, hoping to stave off the inevitable lecture. "Per favore fatemi spiegare. Io–" (5)

"_Tim_."

The younger man blinked.

The Bat's voice was a mix of fondness and exasperation. "Get some rest."

Bruce was halfway across the Cave when his exhaustion-addled, Italian stuffed brain finally caught up to what the older man had said.

"Does this mean we're speaking English again?" he called out after the departing vigilante.

"_Buonanotte._" (6)

Tim slumped forward with a groan.

* * *

><p>(1) According to Google translate: Excuse me.<p>

(2) This is actually a book. I take no credit.

(3) According to Google translate, this is "di andare."

(4) This is a language program you can actually buy. I take no credit.

(5) According to Google translate, this means "Sir, please let me explain. I-"

(6) According to Google translate: Good night.


	3. Extreme Sleeping

When Tim was little, he'd never been able to sleep in a moving vehicle. Read, yes. Listen to music, totally. But never sleep. The constant motion was disconcerting when he was trying to rest, and the lurching usually worked itself up to nausea within a half hour. What few summer road trips he had taken in his youth were characterized by a binge of caffeinated beverages to stay awake, or an increasingly green pallor that ended in an unscheduled pit stop on the side of the road.

Needless to say, he never figured he would one day be able to sleep in _any_ sort of motor vehicle, let alone the hulking beast that was the Batmobile (part muscle car, part tank, part eyebrow of disbelief from Alfred – the bat wing fins and super-sized tailpipe had been removed soon after).

However, like most of his training, he learned to adapt if he wanted to survive.

He learned never to have both hands full at once because that just begged for a surprise attack and impromptu lesson on subduing an adversary with nothing but a pizza box and a two-liter of soda (mentos and diet coke, anyone?).

He learned that the Commissioner's glasses served the same purpose as Clark's (to downplay and disguise a highly intelligent, observant mind and present an innocuous facade) while still adequately correcting his eyesight to the point where his baby blues had picked up on the barest hint of a limp the younger vigilante manged to conceal from his mentor (one pleading please-don't-tell look had been answered by an admonishing okay-just-this-once-but-get-that-looked-at look).

He learned to sense the nigh-undetectable footfalls that preceded a jaunty cockney accent and trim mustache (obviously, it wasn't just from Ra's al Guhl that Bruce learned his stealth techniques) if he didn't want to startle embarrassingly and knock over something expensive-sounding.

He learned, six stitches and a lecture later, the perfect timing for a proper forearm block, but it was still three weeks and eight grueling remedial training sessions later before Bruce started treating him like he wasn't made of glass (and the vaguely tortured, guilty look that haunted Bruce's eyes whenever they fell upon the bandaged wound disappeared with the stitches).

And he learned the best spot in the 'mobile (tucked into the door between the controls for the battering ram and the forward missiles) for a quick, post-patrol cat nap (bat nap...?).

Which consequently lead to him learning what a conflicted Bruce looked like when, upon blinking awake to find the car parked in the Cave, he found the older man leaning over the open cockpit, obviously not wanting to leave his apprentice in the cramped car, in the dampness of the cave, (and at the mercy of the bats) but also painfully aware of the awkwardness that should ensue if Tim were to awake whilst being carried into the manor. Thankfully, as Tim rubbed the sleep from his eyes and clambered out of the Batmobile under his own power, the Bat's eyes and jaw lost the look and set of a stoic general making a grim decision.

If Tim noticed they ended their nightly patrol a little earlier the subsequent evening (Gordon was a big boy. He could handle the generic ski-mask robbery that had dropped.), he didn't comment (At least not intelligibly – that's difficult to do when one is scarfing down the best meal one's had in _days_).

It seemed that this new-found ability, and conquering of a childhood handicap, had opened a door into the dangerous world of avante garde sleeping (or, as Tim liked to call it, survival).

He'd fallen asleep on a dolly under the 'mobile when the toolbox seemed oh-so-far away and, really, he would just close his eyes for a second and then he would have stored up enough energy to reach the eighth wrench.

He'd fallen asleep tilted eyes-first against the microscope, and apparently exuded such a concentrated air that an English butler intent on bestowing gifts of grilled cheese and tomato soup had quietly retreated. The lump he received when he slipped sideways and cracked his head on the lab bench? Easily explainable when it became part of a collection that night on patrol.

He'd fallen asleep in front of the computer, basking in the heat it generated (he still swore up and down that they'd all wake up one day riddled with tumors and only have the large machine to blame) only to be startled awake by the blaring klaxon and swirling crimson lights that indicated a break-out from Arkham (and the beginning of a really, _really_ long night).

His inner bad-ass crime fighter warred with his common sense and just wouldn't let him admit defeat and take a "proper kip in a proper bed" (His conscience sounded oddly like a certain older gentleman he knew). Yes, he was sleeping either way, but with the one it was a manful five minutes snatched here and there in spartan conditions versus the perceived weakness of a longer rest in a softer place. As far as Tim could tell, the Bat was made of unyielding iron and powered by the furnace of his rage upon which he shoveled the coal of others' sins.

Or something like that.

Oddly enough, the older man had taken this habit in stride. It had become something of a routine for him: bury himself in the details, patterns, evidence, and coincidences of a case; emerge triumphant with a lead; belatedly remember he had a partner; find said partner in the cave.

The last step was always the most interesting. Dick, endlessly in motion, could always be located looping in and about the trapeze in the center of the Cave. Jason, with all the fervor of an angsty teenager, threw himself into pounding a punching bag in the gym or laying apathetically about.

Tim, however . . . Tim was equally likely to be titrating a solution in the lab, working his pectorals in the gym, or tinkering at a work bench on a new gadget. Or, as was becoming an increasingly normal occurrence, slumped over or curled up or sprawled out in sleep, contorted in some awkward position that made the Bat wince internally in sympathy.

This had become such the norm that when, upon finding a lead, Bruce headed toward the lab bench where he had last seen the younger man, he half expected to discover him snoring. Only a quietly burbling experiment missing a scientist greeted him. He does a quick (not-panicked-because-he-is-the-Batman) run-through of the cave, even going so far as to check the overhead trapeze for any rigging resembling a hammock upon which the Boy Wonder could be sleeping. But he finds only Robin's uniform hung neatly in its place, cape folded on the shelf above it, boots lined up on the floor below it.

With a jolt, Bruce realized that their patrol had ended some hours before and that he had been too deep in the case to acknowledge Tim's weary good night. He trotted up the familiar stone steps, passed through the grandfather clock, and ascended the grand staircase to the second level. There, he padded down the hallway until he reached his goal: a door slightly ajar.

Through it, he could see that his apprentice, who was flopped facedown on the bed, apparently had had enough energy to make it into pajamas but not under the blankets. His hair was a mess, his clothes wrinkled, his wrapped wrist still mending, but he smiled in his sleep and appeared utterly content.

Bruce would never admit the warmth that unfurled in his chest at the sight of the younger man so at peace and relaxed (and inexplicably missing one sock).

Bruce would also never admit to carefully bundling Tim under the covers and hesitantly smoothing his hair away from his forehead before murmuring good night and slipping out of the room.

But the photos discreetly snapped by a devious English butler would prove otherwise.


End file.
